San Andrés in Icod de los Vinos – Anyone Know How to Light a Damp Squib?

A Tyre Barrier, But Where Are The Tray Riders?

Here’s something that came as a bit of a shock to me, but in retrospect is quite obvious; it gets darker earlier in Icod de los Vinos than it does in Puerto de la Cruz – there’s this big hill you see.

The relevance of this is that when we headed up to Icod to watch and photograph the ‘arrastre de las tablas’ on Sunday night, I completely misjudged it… in more ways than one.

I’d hoped to be in position with my camera just at that point when the sky turns a lovely lavender colour as dusk starts to fall. Well it might have been a lovely lavender colour in Puerto, in Icod it was already dark; the sun had already dipped behind the hill which shelters the town. Not only that, there was a seriously angry looking cloud sitting so low in the valley that I felt if I reached up I could grab a handful of storm black, cotton wool – not the best conditions for taking photographs.

To add to the worsening situation, as any resemblance to daylight decided to shut up shop for the day, Icod’s steep streets were devoid of mad lads on trays. It was a ghost town. Except it wasn’t; we could hear the combined moaning, groaning and half excited cheers of great numbers of people, we just couldn’t see them. Then a Canarian friend’s advice crept back into my consciousness:

“There won’t be anyone about for hours on Sunday night – Barcelona are playing Real Madrid.’

It was a Tenerife rookie’s mistake. Forget anything happening when these two play. Most people on the Island will support one, or other of them. The older folks usually opting for Franco’s team, the younger ones for the Catalonians.

As we walked deeper into Icod’s centre, we passed bar after bar packed to the gunwales with locals, some with their San Andrés trays under their arms.

Luckily there is a bar right beside the street where the best examples of ‘arrastre de las tablas’ takes place, so a few lads were splitting their time between squeezing into the bar to check the score and heading up the hill for a death defying ride into a wall of Dunlops.

As it happened, I’d brought my flash gun just in case the light wasn’t great (got that right). Unfortunately it was at that point that the batteries decided to die, so I was left with just the camera’s flash – not good enough for this sort of thing, but it would have to do.

I got in position beside the hill of tyres as the first of the tray riders came screaming down the hill… and the heavens opened. Great dollops of rain bombarded us and Andy and I, along with the handful of non-football loving locals, legged it for sanctuary underneath the nearest balcony.
Sometimes you know when the Gods are against you. This was one of those times. I ain’t no Greek hero like Perseus (shameless plug for Clash of the Titans article in Tenerife Magazine), so I know when I’m beat.

Andy and I pulled up our hoods (at least we had the foresight to realise that November and Icod could equal rain) and headed into the damp, dark night and back to Puerto where I’m sure everyone else was enjoying wine and chestnuts by the harbour…bah humbug.

A Rainy Night In Icod

Incidentally, Icod’s old cobbled streets behind the Drago tree are perfect for a film location. As the street lights cast a soft glow on the wet cobbles I could just see a Gestapo officer’s boots reflected in the puddles, or imagine a Harry Lyme type lighting up in one of the dark doorways.

Having A Gay Old Time in Puerto de la Cruz – Tentación 2009

Yesterday saw the end of Tentación 2009, the gay, lesbian, transsexual and bisexual week in Puerto de la Cruz.

There had been a number of events over last week including ‘Pink Fiestas’ ‘White Nights’ the ‘Day of the Nudist’ (which took place behind closed doors, so god knows what went on there).

The week was rounded off by a Gay Pride Parade which livened up Avenida Familia Betancourt with rainbow cloured flags, 1970s glamour girl haircuts, and pouting beauty queens in dresses with plunging necklines and thigh exposing splits… the women in the parade seemed dull by comparison. Actually that’s not strictly true, but they were overshadowed, or even over eye-shadowed.

Here are a few shots from the day.

Ticker Tape Start to the Parade

Wasn't this Guy in Live and Let Die?

Maybe a Smile Would Crack the Make-up

In Puerto it's not only the Girls who dream of growing up to be Beauty Queens

Check out some more piccies here.

The July Fiestas in Tenerife – Fancy Some Wet ‘n’ Wild Action?

There was a moment yesterday when I felt like Neo being advised by Morpheus.

“This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.”

We were standing at the apex of anarchy with our backs to the relative tranquillity of Plaza Charco. In front lay two streets; both were swirling cauldrons of bronzed flesh each moving liking a single organism. Our ears were assaulted by house, dance, trance, trad Canario and that odd whistling El Hierro music – we were on the edge of the abyss and there was only one way to discover whether it was the portal to heaven or to hell…we swallowed the red pill and jumped in.

You might think that my intro is a bit exaggerated, but believe me there were moments on ‘Embarkation Tuesday’ in Puerto de la Cruz when I felt that we were engulfed in an open air hedonistic mad house as our senses were assaulted by a relentless barrage of noise, colour and smells as upwards of thirty thousand people danced, drank, ate, fought running battles with hi-powered water pistols and threw themselves, or were thrown, from the harbour ramparts into the cooling and usually calm harbour waters.

Even when you're planning on getting wet, you've just got to be colour co-ordinated.

I could imagine Father Dougal turning to father Ted with that goofy look of his and declaring:

“It’s all a bit mad isn’t it, Ted.”

Embarkation Tuesday is the highlight of Puerto de la Cruz’ July Fiestas and is generally an excuse for the townspeople to cut loose and party like it’s 1999 (or whatever people party like it is these days).

Carnaval street parties might be lively affairs, but if anything Embarkation Tuesday is wilder…it’s certainly wetter. It’s unlikely that anyone is going to try to throw you into the harbour if they don’t know you, but I always keep my back to something solid when I’m taking photos just in case. What is guaranteed is that at some stage someone is going to take you out with a well aimed jet from a water pistol.

“Aaargh,” Andy shouted at one point. “Somebody just shot me in the boobs.”
“Wow,” I answered, impressed. “Must have been a damn good shot.”

Look out behind you!

The truth is that after a few circuits under a sun whose fierce rays could fry eggs on lobster thighs, you’re almost begging people to ‘shoot’ you in an attempt to cool down. Had I not had my camera around my neck, I’d have welcomed a detour into the refreshing embrace of the harbour’s water.

As the afternoon progresses the party gets wilder, the music gets louder and the beer flows faster. There’s an almost ‘dare’ element to attempting to walk down streets like Calle Perdomo where gun battles rage and there’s always a danger of being taken out by smart bomb from above (aka as a bucket of water thrown from a balcony). We spotted one just about to be tipped over us and did a sharp detour to the other side of the street just as the people around us were drenched by an explosion of water.

At one point in the midst of the madness I had an anxiety attack and wondered where all the other ‘extranjeros’ were and where did they get all that white meat for the ‘pinchitos’ that were sizzling at the entrance to every bar – were the two linked? (Southern Comfort – the movie, not the drink – is responsible for this paranoia that occurs every time I find myself in the middle of a frenzy of music, eating and drinking and I’m not a ‘local’)

We had decided that we weren’t going to queue for hours to see the embarkation this year. We done it year after year and it’s always a test of stamina, but at around 6pm we spotted an almost empty prime position on top of a wall beside the harbour and were seduced into thinking: ‘it’s a wall, it’s only a couple of feet wide – nobody else can squeeze in there.’

Boy, were we wrong. Canarios, like nature, abhor a vacuum and despite the danger of the wall collapsing, or someone falling, they piled in behind us, inching forward at the least sign of weakness. It’s always the way, you have to come to accept it, but it’s rarely done with malice or anger.

Many Hands Make Light Work

The Virgen and San Telmo eventually turned up to be loaded onto their boats at around 8-ish to shouts of ‘No Pasa Nada’ and after a day of drinking beer, eating spicy pork and chicken pinchitos and being machine gunned by water pistols on numerous occasions we were able to retire, exhausted, to the calm sanctuary of our house.

Embarkation Tuesday is great fun, but there’s an underlying seriousness to the day’s events and the loading of San Telmo and the Virgen del Carmen onto their fishing boats is a deadly serious affair. If I’ve made it sound a bit crazy, then good. Like I said it’s great fun, but if you’re the slightest bit fainthearted, take the blue pill and enjoy it from the fringes.

See more photos of Puerto’s day of madness here.

Sardines & Stars on 45: July Fiestas Puerto de la Cruz

The Sardinada Stall - you'll be smelling of grilled sardines for days

Two things occurred to me as I was doing my customary shuffle, which masquerades as my version of dancing, to dodgy music at San Telmo during the ‘Sardinada’ last night.

The first was that I remembered that I actually originally liked ‘I Will Survive’ before women in Britain turned it into an anthem celebrating the fact that they were crap at choosing the right man. Here there are no screams when ‘First I was afraid, I was petrified…” starts to blast out of the speakers, immediately followed by hordes of girlies rushing to the centre of the dance floor belting out the lyrics with heartfelt emotion. Here it’s just another song. Well, actually it’s still a gay anthem, but that’s okay – that doesn’t make you feel that you’re responsible for doing the dirty on every woman in the vicinity just by virtue of your sex.

The other thing that occurred to me was that we were seriously starved of good music. No, that’s unfair. We hear lots of really good Latino and traditional Canario music all the time. It’s just that every now and again we’d like to hear a bit of Faithless, or the Kings of Leon, or the Killers…or even Robbie Williams. But the DJ who preceded the Latino band San Telmo last night was stuck firmly in the early eighties. He started well enough with a bit of Amy Winehouse, but within a few lines changed it to ‘Black is Black’ and a Stars on 45 medley that they used to play in discos when I was 18.

It didn’t matter, it wasn’t Latino, or Canario, it was something different and when the Bee Gees started singing ‘Staying Alive’ I felt Tony Manero course through my veins and suddenly it was 1979 and I was imagining I was John Travolta again. Luckily enough I hadn’t downed many cervezas, so there was no embarrassing attempt to actually replicate his moves from Saturday Night Fever (not this time anyway), but I did sing-along with mucho gusto as did Andy.

DJ in Puerto - If Gene Hunt time travelled to Puerto's Sardinada - would he know he'd time travelled at all?

And so it continued as Karma Chameleon was followed by YMCA (the crowd here don’t spell it out) and then some really bad Spanish Euro pop which the crowd of twenty to fifty some-things lapped up. Ironically the teenagers opted to congregate on the promenade above San Telmo waiting for the Latino band to strike up before they swamped the natural dance floor overlooking San Telmo’s rock pools. The DJ finished his set with ‘Song 2’ by Blur – almost the most up to date sound he played all night (Amy didn’t count).

It was kitsch music, but it was really good fun and Puerto was buzzing with an infectious fiesta atmosphere.  Before we’d musically time-travelled, we’d forked out our €3.50 each for a plate of grilled sardines, a chunk of anis bread and a cerveza and sat on the wall peeling the sardine’s delicate and salty flesh away from its bones as a stream of stylishly dressed young Spanish and Canarios paraded by like models in an unplanned fashion show.

The Sardinada is only the ‘warm up’ event for Embarkation Tuesday, but it’s a wonderful experience in its own right and shows Puerto and its people’s joie de vivre at their best. It was one of those nights that make you wonder is there a better place on this earth than this town.

Corpus Christi Flower Carpets of Tenerife part 2 – Say it With Flowers

It was another stunning day in La Orotava and the flower carpets as always added a sea of vibrant colours to the already ridiculously picturesque old streets. But although the carpets were sensational, there were other things which caught my eye this year. Images and scenes which brought home to me the real essence of La Orotava’s rainbow coloured celebrations – the first was the sight of four toddlers sitting on the ground picking petals from  flowers.

Child Labour in La Orotava

The carpets are clearly the magnet for the thousands of people who visit La Orotava, but having photographed the carpets over the last few years, I was looking to try to take some different shots, so this year I focussed more on the people creating the flower carpets.

"No...it definitely goes there!"

I find them incredible to watch; each family member’s role is clearly defined from the most mundane snipping petals from flower heads to the careful placing of each individual flower to create evocative images. The younger kids are entrusted to carry bags of sacks, a bit of petal pulling and some laying the grass seeds in the less detailed sections…watched closely by the supervising abuelo who barks stern words when they get over enthusiastic. There are even individual carpets created solely by children. It really is an all round family affair which ensures that the tradition will be carried on ad infinitum.

A message of world solidarity...even if the Chinese person has an odd shaped head

The family atmosphere even extends to visitors and although by midday La Orotava is buzzing with people, the chances are that if you’re a resident of any nationality, you’ll bump into someone you know.  At various points we bumped into Colin Kirby (admittedly there aren’t many people with blond hair wearing a CD Tenerife shirt, so Colin’s hard to miss), Phil Crean (composing a photograph with a patience I just don’t possess) and our friend, Jose, who we hadn’t seen since last year’s carpets.
As Colin mentioned in his blog, an attempt to ‘storm the tower’ to get some aerial shots was thwarted. But at least we weren’t physically rebuffed like some overly keen young local lads who also tried to rush the entrance to the Iglesia de la Concepción’s tower.
Thanks to Jose, I did manage to get halfway up the tower at one point and snapped a few quick shots before being shepherded back to ground level by a trainee jobsworth. To be fair, I understood his reluctance to let just anyone up on to the roof. It’s not designed for spectators and somebody falling with a splat on a flower carpet might have been spectacular, but would probably have ruined the day.

From a Room with a View

To get the full sense of what is going on a few circuits are required to see the streets being transformed from being full of crates of exquisitely coloured petals and grass seeds into an open air gallery for floral masterpieces.

The heat of a June day combined with La Orotava’s muscle testing slopes can make it a test of stamina, but the rewards are always worth the effort and anyway a rest stop at a Guachinche every so often rejuvenates. One of the things I noticed was that carpets retain a similar theme each year. Some alfombristas stick to traditional designs or religious imagery whilst others use more contemporary designs which need a bit of contemplation to figure out. Thankfully Jose provided priceless information when we were stumped. I just couldn’t make out what one carpet was at all until he pointed out it was a fallen angel.

Here's Angel...but where's Buffy?

As the day progressed, the town became a little less manic and ironically by the time many of the carpets are having their last petals placed, between 4 and 5pm, the streets were relatively quiet. It’s a good time for photographs, but we were shattered. I knew that I really should complete another circuit; that the best shots lay out there waiting for me.
“Home?” Andy suggested.
“Absolutely.” I answered without hesitation. At least for us it’s only a five minute drive.
We strolled past the church again and headed down hill. A little kiosk beside the church was buzzing with some of the alfombristas who, now that their work was done, were enjoying the late afternoon sunshine with a caña in their hands. It looked inviting.
“Cerveza?” Andy suggested.
“Absolutely,” I replied without hesitation.

That’s the problem with this colourful family affair; it’s very difficult to drag yourself away from it.

Click here to see a slideshow of the La Orotava Corpus Christi Carpets

La Orotava, Corpus Christi on Tenerife 2009 – Part 1

An evocative image made from sand and soil

I always like to take a trip up the hill to La Orotava the day before the main Corpus Christi celebrations to watch the alfombristas (carpet makers) put the finishing touches to the main sand tapestry outside the Ayuntamiento (Town Hall).

The weather hasn’t been kind to the alfombristas this year. An unseasonable heavy downpour of rain a couple of days ago must have caused a few squeaky bum moments, but a sloping canopy saved the wonderful work of art. An alfombrista told me it’s actually the idea of wind that…errr puts the wind up them, so not the disaster it could have been.

This years offering is quite magnificent, as good as that of two years ago and the centrepiece is an incredibly vibrant image despite being created solely from volcanic soil. Don’t take my word for it, here’s a preview of the near finished masterpiece which will be unveiled in all its glory tomorrow.

The Centrepiece of the Sand Tapestry 2009

Have a look at more images here.

A Life on the Ocean Wave – The Tall Ships in Tenerife

That's a lot of friggin' rigging

For a while on Thursday I had the overwhelming urge to dig out my old striped Brittany fisherman’s T-shirt, buy a kitbag, fill it with who-knows-what, have an anchor tattooed on my bicep and head up to Santa Cruz to stowaway on a sailing ship…an Argentinean one to be exact.

The Tall Ships were in town and their arrival time-warped the dock back a century or so. I’ve seen old sailing ships before and I remember being surprised at how small they were. As we stood on the bridge outside of the African Market and looked over the Noría district, the old skyline was dwarfed by wooden masts and a veritable spiders’ web of rigging; these ships were not quite like any I’d seen before.

I’d been hoping to take some photographs of the armada sailing into Santa Cruz harbour with their sails billowing in their morning sunshine; however, a) all the ships were berthed by the time we arrived on Thursday morning at around 10.00 and b) there wasn’t any sunshine anyway.

No shortcuts to loading goods on this ship

The eleven ships which had completed the first leg of the Atlantic Challenge 2009 were an eclectic bunch ranging from a relatively small ketch (the British Rona II) to a football pitch sized monster of the seas (the Russian Kruzernshtern) which even made the huge Argentinean ‘Libertad’ and Romanian ‘Mircea’ which were berthed nearby seem little more than big yachts. The Cabildo building in the background looked more like its Pueblo Chico version than the real thing.

The buzz of getting up close to these giants of the ocean soon banished any regrets at not seeing the ships arrive and watching the sailors go about the daily business of maintaining their vessels made me realise that not a lot had changed in a hundred years.

One sailor hung from a rope swing underneath a prow touching up the paintwork, passing a paint pot fashioned from a water bottle cut in two to his mate perched precariously on the anchor by means of a grappling hook at the end of a rope.

Pass the paint, mate

A long line of sailors stretching from the dockside into the galley passed crates of tomatoes, aubergines, peppers and sacks of potatoes between one another; it could have been a scene straight out of Mutiny on the Bounty. It was fascinating to watch.

It was also interesting to note what supplies were being taken on board each ship. Where the Argentinean sailors stocked up with a supermarket storeroom of fresh fruit and vegetables, as I passed one of the smaller British ships I noticed they were loading up tins of corned beef and packets of shredded wheat. At the Russian ship, immaculately dressed young sailors with dinner plate hats filed up the gangplank with Mercadona carrier bags filled with six packs of beer.
There was a real feeling of purpose and community, of sharing and friendship which united mariners from 10 different nations. It was compelling to witness and as I wandered amongst the members of this unique sea going community of modern day adventurers I heard the strains of a sea shanty in my head and the tug of an ozone laden breeze on my sleeve.

The appearance of some of the Argentinean crew was the crowning moment which almost had me reaching for a quill and saying “forget the shilling I’ll sign up for nothing”.

A Few Good Men...and some bloody marvellous women

A row of female sailors dressed in the traditional naval summer white uniform a la Demi Moore in ‘A Few Good Men’ sashayed down the quay toward their ship. At that moment I realised why so many young men ran away to sea.

A shout from above broke the spell and I looked up to see a line of men strung out along a sail on the uppermost spar on the tallest mast. They stood suspended 100 metres above the ground, on what looked like the thinnest of ropes. That 1920s picture of construction workers high above New York sprang into my mind and I suddenly felt a bit dizzy.

A life on the ocean wave might have had a romantic appeal to it; a life swinging about on a slippery mast high above it didn’t.
My imagination might run off to sea, but my legs are definitely staying firmly on dry land.

You’ll believe a Rabbit can Fly

Never, ever drop LSD if you’re coming to Tenerife…trust me, there’s simply no need:

It's either FLYPA 09, or I've had too much damn tequila again...

Tenerife Carnaval 2009 – The Opening Parade

With the rains affecting the election of the Carnaval Queen, the postponement of the opening parade till Sunday evening was a godsend, giving us time to regroup and re-energise slightly before going back into Puerto de la Cruz to battle for a prime spot to watch the opening parade. Every year we’ve tried different areas, but have never really quite got it right. The lighting is usually too dim – it’s commendable that street lighting is dim on Tenerife in an attempt to cut down on light pollution, but it does make photography, unless you’ve got super-dooper equipment, difficult. Then there’s the ubiquitous little Canarian woman who turns up at the last minute and we let her shuffle in front of us because she’s hobbit sized and not going to spoil the view; only to find that two minutes later she spots her Shrek sized family, overfed on gofio until they’re big enough to blot out the sun, and shouts them over to join her, completely blocking any view we had.

You'd never know it was a winter's night

So finding the perfect spot can take a bit of planning. On Sunday we decided to try the Ranilla district. The streets are narrow there which has two plus points. They’re not wide enough for any doe-eyed old Canarian woman to squeeze in front of you and it means that the dancers in the parade are right beside you – good for close ups with an ordinary flash.

Surprisingly, the streets in the Ranilla district weren’t that busy and we were able to find a good spot easily and sat on the pavement’s edge to await the parade (our legs not able to support us for too long after the demands of the previous night).

In what must have been a first for Carnaval, the parade actually started on time. Actually it was about twenty minutes late, but on Tenerife that’s akin to being seriously punctual. Maybe it was because the parade had been postponed and some of the groups had commitments at other Carnavals around the island, but there weren’t as many flamboyant dance groups as in previous years (See Photo of the Day #3). That’s not to say it wasn’t great fun. The Canarian abuela (granny) next to us howled with laughter at some of the costumes – the biggest shrieks came when someone carrying a huge inflatable penis and testicles passed. They might not like spice in their food here, but they don’t mind it served up in other ways.

It only took just over an hour for the exotically dressed troupes of dancers (the kids’ ones being escorted by proud beaming mums) and floats with the Carnaval Queens – infant, adult and third age – to pass by and despite the theme this year being ‘Africa – Land of Tribes’, and many groups having a tribal theme to their dress, there wasn’t much of the ‘blacked up’ black and white minstrel element that I’d been expecting. No doubt that’ll be saved for the High Heels Marathon on Friday (anyone offended by political incorrectness should maybe think about giving that one a miss – or at least putting away their principles for a night).

I’m glad we made the effort to go and see the parade, but I have to admit to being secretly pleased when it finished early and we were able to head for home and slob out on the sofa a couple of hours earlier than I’d expected.

Now we’ve got a rest until the Burial of the Sardine on Wednesday and a decision about whether to tranny up or not this year. Not that I’ve got any qualms about slipping into a little black number, but I was gutted when I saw how much like an old slapper I looked like last time I did it.

Tenerife Carnaval 2009 – Dancing in the Street

I think your tie's slipped Cleo

The trouble with simply enjoying yourself at one of Carnaval’s street parties is that there’s too much going on and for people watchers like us, it’s a voyeuristic overdose. We continually circuit the Carnaval area to make sure we’re not missing the best music and to spot what the best costumes are on show this year. Between 01.00 and 02.00, the streets were relatively easy to negotiate, but by 03.00. Plaza del Charco was a seething mass of colour (see Carnaval Photo of the Day #2) and progress along Calle Perdomo involved simply surrendering ourselves to the beast and letting it play with us for a while before spitting us out at the other end of the street about forty minutes later. It was a bit like a Russian roulette version of dancing and progress was unpredictable as we were bumped and squeezed between masked strangers, sometimes bodily contact was such that, had this been on my home island of Bute, a marriage proposal would have been expected afterwards.

Electric blue and fibre optic purple wigs were popular on Saturday night. Personally I reckon there was a design flaw when humans were evolving (or being created depending on your religious stance). I’ve never seen anyone who didn’t look fantastic in a blue or purple wig.

Somehow I suspect these nurses don't have warm hands!

But for me, the best costumes were the ones with wit and originality and on Saturday night my favourites were a Rubik’s cube, some fluffy dice and, as always, the serious trannies. The trannies always stand out at Carnaval and not just because they’re wearing 6 inch heels. Their costumes are usually elaborate, sometimes risqué, but are always eye-catching, but it’s their faces I love. Exaggerated makeup masked faces etched with world weary lines which conjure up memories of Terence Stamp in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Some look fearsome creatures, but happily strike a pose whenever a camera appears. These are the true veteran showgirls of Carnaval.
On Saturday we managed to dance and sway our way around the circuit until sometime after 4 a.m. when a tiny shard of common sense (when common sense makes an appearance at Carnaval it proves we must be getting old) suggested it was time to leave the party if we wanted to last the week.  And so at around 5 a.m., after a forty minute walk home and a marathon face paint removing session we collapsed into bed having survived day one of Carnaval in Puerto de la Cruz.